The Madonna of Port Lligat
by Incanto
Summary: It's time for the annual Fukuoka Ramen Show, and Davis is bringing his A-game; but he might be headed for a confrontation with a very different kind of rival. TK is in town in search of inspiration for his next book, and he seems to have brought along a mutual friend.
1. Ramen

**Author's Note**: _Started writing this on a whim after realizing that Davis' dream of owning a humble "noodle cart" is a much bigger deal than it seemed at the time, given what a big deal ramen is. We'll see where it goes. Not meant to be AU exactly; I'm following canon as closely as I remember it, but it is unlikely that any Digimon will appear in this story, at least for the time being._

_Thanks for reading_ ^_^

_Incanto_

* * *

Fukuoka, the largest city on Japan's southern island of Kyushu, was once two cities. The old castle town, Fukuoka, and the merchant quarters of Hakata stood on opposite banks of the Nakagawa river. Today as the sun goes down on the broad flat back of the Nakagawa, showing the veins of deep blue and purple concealed in the water, and broadening the haloes of neon light from the big shopping centers overlooking it—Canal City, Don Quixote, Riverain—the early summer air smells of ramen.

_Tonkotsu_ ramen stinks. Pig bones stew in pressure cookers for hours, oozing their dark cartilage into the water until it turns a creamy white. Tupperware boxes are filled with dollops of bright pink shredded ginger, cool green _negi_ onion slices, sesame seeds, and—a local speciality—damp mounds of sour, spicy _takana_ leaf. Lights are kindled inside red paper lanterns. Already exhausted, the chefs puff on cigarettes behind their stalls as the tourists and locals begin parading by.

On a Friday in the last week of May, just before the last pink-purplish light rose up out of the sky, while there were still a few empty stools even at the most popular of the Nakagawa stalls, three boys were playing soccer in the brief courtyard that separated the row of stalls from the Canal City shopping center. This courtyard was decorated with colorful flowerbeds that were in full bloom only a week ago. Now it was too dark even to tell the three soccer-playing boys apart from each other, the soccer ball flitting like a giant moth in between their wiry bodies.

Davis stood pushing up the awning of his food stall with one elbow, watching the boys, smiling. His face was as perfectly round and open as ever, if a decade of living in the hot south of Japan had baked his skin very brown. If this were a movie, he thought, he'd jog over to the boys, juggle their ball away from them, bounce it on his head and shoulders while they gasped and cheered, maybe give them a few pointers, tell them to follow their dreams and never smoke cigarettes. But it wasn't a movie, he didn't remember a thing about soccer, and while still smiling, his hand moved down and kneaded the small pot belly he had been busy acquiring; although his arms and legs were still muscular.

It wasn't a movie, but that didn't mean there were no happy endings.

Davis' stall (the sign over his shoulder read _Gogglehead_, next to an appropriate pair of oversized swimmer's goggles) was not empty because he had no customers. If was empty because it was currently 6:27, he opened at 6:30 sharp, and the line to get in already stretched practically to the end of the row of stalls. People standing at the far end of the line might be waiting over an hour before they settled their butts on his stools. If there was one thing that still faintly embarrassed Davis about being Japanese, it was their willingness to stand in line for things. But in the long queue of Japanese faces there were some Chinese and Korean; even a few white, brown or black.

If there was anything to regret, it was the withering jealousy of his fellow stall owners; this Tokyo hot-shot stealing the crown of _tonkotsu_ ramen right off the heads of Fukuoka's native sons. But no one could hold a grudge against Davis for long. He'd always made friends easily.

Davis's head chef, a calm young man with died brown hair, sat behind the red counter that circled him on three sides. While he didn't smoke, unlike many chefs, he was sipping the beer he liked to enjoy before his shift. His name was Kugiyama. He was the son of an old ramen house, and while Davis handled the menu, the ingredients and most of the publicity, he had Kugiyama to thank for the secret of his gold-colored broth; although he had helped by tasting many, many spoonfuls during its long perfection.

"Hey Kugi," Davis called back, "think you can handle the place for like a half-hour?"

"Sure." Kugiyama sipped his beer. "Hot date? They never last long with you."

"Harr, harr.—Nah, I just wanna stretch my legs a bit. It's a nice night, y'know?"

He bobbed slightly up and down on his heels. Kugiyama, whose narrow eyes were keenly perceptive, smiled.

"Sure thing. But hey, if doesn't work out, send her my way, huh? Lord Buddha knows I'm single too."

"Tch. Shut _up_. You stink like pig bones anyway."

"Said the pot to the kettle."

Davis laughed as he skipped out from under the awning, aware of the eyes at the front of the queue attaching to him—was it really _him_, _the_ Daisuke "Davis" Motomiya?—scattered whispers…He picked his way between the black flowerbeds, under the shining lights that blinked _Canal_—_City_—_Canal_—_City_—to the place where the three boys had been playing.

They were gone.

Three boys. Maybe one or more of them had even been girls, it was hard to tell at that age. He walked a little way down the river's edge, scuffing his sneakers on the paving stones.

All of a sudden, for no reason he was aware of, he let out a big sigh.

It seemed to take all the air out of him. He sank down, looking over the water dark and bright that sloshed, rolled, moving past, on and on. He was only a hundred feet or less from the stalls, but they felt much farther away.

_Said the pot to the kettle_, he thought. What did that even mean? He wasn't sure, although it had seemed to make sense when Kugiyama said it.

* * *

Near midnight, only one customer remained under the awning of _Gogglehead_. Some of the nearby stalls were already shuttered for the night. The half-hour Davis had been stretching his legs had turned into one, two, then many; although a brief text message—_alive_?—had at one point yielded a similar answer—_yeah_.

Kugiyama wasn't surprised. He was twenty-four; Davis must have been nearly thirty. Guys got weird around that age. They started remembering things. And from observing his father, and others, it was Kugiyama's guess that, far from realizing that their lives were short, they began to feel that they had already been long.

He was polishing a beer glass, and without looking up he said to the only customer: "Sorry, boss. Doesn't really look like he's coming back."

"That's okay." The customer sipped down the last inch of _shochu_, potato _sake_, that remained in his glass. His voice was friendly and mild. He clicked down a five-hundred yen coin on the counter. "Thanks for your trouble."

Kugiyama had made a little conversation with the light-haired man. He was from Tokyo, and would be in town for a few weeks. He might have been some kind of writer or journalist, although he was vague on the point. He had come to Fukuoka to see a painting they had in the small art museum in Ohori Park—a painting by a Spanish artist, Salvador Dali, called _The Madonna of Port Lligat_. In twenty-four years of living in Fukuoka, Kugiyama had never been to the art museum.

"Hey. Give him my card, would ya?" The man placed a business card face-down next to the sticky imprint from his glass. "He'll remember."

"You mean you guys go back?—Well, yeesh, you should've phoned him up or something."

The man shrugged. It was difficult to tell just from looking at him what his line of work might be, or anything else about him. He wore a light-colored suit that matched his yellowy, flyaway hair, and there was the faintest suggestion of crows-feet around his eyes when he smiled, which was often. There was a camera looped around his neck. The camera was small, pink and white.

"I thought it might be cooler if it happened like this," he said. "Like something in a book, y'know? But life's not like that, not really. I should know that better than anyone."

He started to get up.

"Nice camera," said Kugiyama, as he slid the card toward himself.

"I'm holding onto it for a friend."

"Girlfriend?"

"A friend who happens to be a girl…yeah."

"Huh. If I'm giving the boss _your_ number, how about you give me _hers_?"

The man smirked.

"Dream on," he said, took down his soft, almost shapeless hat from the peg it hung on, fitted it carefully on his head, and walked off into the fragrant, wet darkness.


	2. Submarines

The door to the hotel bathroom stood open, filling the room with clouds of warm steam. The window across the room stood open, and the summer night air wafted in to mix with the steam, and the sound of a loudly running bath mixed with the faint noises of car and foot traffic from the street far below. A girl sat on a chair by the window, the curly red wire of a telephone wrapped five times around her slender left wrist, and she looked from the window, to the bathroom door, to a digital clock on the nightstand that read 7:24. Her body was wrapped in a white hotel robe folded over once.

"Tai," she said, "this isn't the 1940's. Nobody's_ taking advantage_ of anybody. Nobody _takes advantage_ of anybody anymore. He has his own room, and he's being a perfect gentleman.—You'd be _surprised_ how much he's grown up, for your information. He really acts like he's about sixty-two. Sometime I think he looks sad.—Well I wouldn't _know_ about Davis, we haven't seen him yet, he's very busy, apparently there's some kind of Japan Ramen Idol competition coming up and the posters are everywhere…" She got up suddenly, snorting laughter. "You are _not_ getting on the next plane with blood pressure like yours, mister. I know you're eating ramen twice a day without me to look after you anyway. I'll tell you how it goes, and I'll give Davis your best. I have to go, okay? My bath's almost…"

A knock on the door. Color rose to her cheeks, and in an unthinking moment, she almost hung up the phone.

"Kari? You decent?"

"We'll talk later," she whispered, but the voice on the other end of the line rose until it was perfectly audible in the room:

"Is that the little twerp? Put him on the line!"

"Tai, no!"

"Takaishi?" said the phone, "Takaishi T., what the hell are you doing knocking on my kid sister's door at seven at night when she's running her _bath_?—Kari, you put him on right now!"

Blushing furiously, Kari went to the door, holding her robe shut with one hand, heaved it open, and thrust the phone at TK. The cord was stretched taught. Leaning on the door as he shut it, TK ground his face into one hand as he muttered:

"Yes, sir, Mr. Yagami, I understand. I wouldn't dream of it. Yes, I'm a scrawny little keyboard-tapper and you could still kick my ass. I know I get it from my brother. I know he has _a way with the ladies_." He managed to chuckle slightly, although his and Kari's embarrassment was very real. "I know you're jealous of him.—No, sir, I don't think that joke was very funny. Oh, please, Tai, you'd have to catch me first, I've seen the kind of shape you're in these days. Sorry. Not sorry! Ha, ha!"

"No-o!" Kari whined, swatting at him, but held the phone smugly out of her reach, before hanging up. "Oh, no! He'll kill you."

"C'mon." TK sank down on the bed, undoing his collar. "It's all in good fun."

"You don't understand, TK. Sure, he's joking, but he's really worried about me. I tried telling him if nothing ever happened back _then_ for years and years and years, nothing's very likely to happen now, but _he_ said…well, let's just say I had to tell him that only cheeses and wines get more attractive with age. Not people."

"It's cute," said TK, leaning back. His suit was creased and the skin of his face looked tired and yellow. He shut his eyes. "But if he could hear what my brother's been telling _me_, he'd have four aneurysms. You know Matt's always telling me I don't get la—don't date enough; and you know they say Fukuoka girls are pretty…"

She smirked. "Well. Are they?"

"Hmm. I haven't noticed.—Oh, jeez." He blinked. "You weren't kidding about that bath, huh? I can come back later…"

"Shh."

Kari put a finger on his lips. She was regarding him with a warm smile, and he looked back with an ambiguous expression on his tired face, in his slightly bloodshot eyes; cheerful, perhaps slightly grateful; but slightly wary.

"No," she said quietly, "let's talk. We barely _have_ talked since we set off on this little trip. And on the train doesn't count, you were so stiff and awkward. I told him you were being a perfect gentleman but you're being too much of one if you ask me."

Before he could properly respond, she sprang up, knelt down in front of the minibar, and returned, suppressing a giggle, with a wine bottle and two narrow glasses. This elegant impression was ruined slightly when she set the bottle down, and a dull click betrayed that the bottle was plastic.

"Relax, it was just five hundred yen at the convenience store.—Sit back, relax. I'll pour for you."

TK shut his eyes again. He heard a faint trickle of wine, then Kari's softly padding footsteps; then the running water in the bathroom shut off. Her voice came:

"Y'know, I don't know what's the matter with me. I feel ten years younger all of a sudden.—What have you been up to all day? Did you see your painting thing? What was it, the Venus de Milo?"

"That's in Italy, you doof.—And no, I didn't see the painting. The moment's got to be right. Seeing it on my first day in town would ruin everything. It's like…like…never mind."

He opened his eyes, and she was sitting in the chair across from him, hands pressed between her knees, the light shining on the tiny point of her chin, gazing at him with a broad smirk.

"Like what?"

"I'm not telling you," he said, "it's dirty."

"Oh, come on!"

TK sipped the wine. "Hey!—Not bad for five hundred yen."

"Don't try and change the subject. What would it be like, seeing that painting on your first night in town? Like going all the way on a first date? I'm not _that_ naive, and I might not be some great writer, but even I have that basic a command of simile…Mr. Takeru Takaishi."

"Heh. Okay. It's not that, it's something an American writer said once.—_To me, nudity is a joke. I don't think nude people are very attractive at all. I like to imagine what might be under there. It might not be the standard thing. Imagine, stripping a woman down, and she has a body like a little submarine. With periscope, propellers, torpedoes. That would be the one for me. I'd marry her right off and be faithful to the end._"

"Wow."

"I told you you wouldn't like it."

"No," she said honestly, "I think that's great. Who was it?"

"I don't remember."

A car honked in the street outside, and they both started, jolted out of some mild dreamlike state caused by the late hour, and the smell of the wine and hot bathwater.

TK got up abruptly.

"I'd better go," he said. "Um, here's your camera."

"Aw. Really?"

But there was no force in her protest. She had not filled his glass very much, and he'd already drained it in two sips.

"We should get an early start tomorrow. Lots to see and do. Besides, that bottle's a twist-off. Not like we have to finish the whole thing tonight."

"Yeah…I guess you're right."

As he stood in the doorway, looking back, a gleam returned to TK's eye as he said: "I know what's got your brother's so paranoid."

"I know, he gets like that when any guy…"

"No. It's not any guy. It's me. Say you and me got married—it'd be like you were marrying _Matt_. Can you imagine how much that would piss Tai off? He'd much rather see you with Davis. Then he'd practically be marrying you himself."

"Oh, _ew_."

She slammed the door over the sight of his cackling face, and his laughter could be heard as it retreated down the hall, slowly, but not very far. There was a beeping noise made by a keycard in a door. Just like the one whenever she entered her room. Five doors down, and across the hall. She could practically count the steps.

With a vague look on her face, now holding the robe closed with both hands, Kari entered the bathroom. She slowly put out one long, pale finger until its tip just brushed the surface of the water.

She grimaced. It was lukewarm.


	3. Dazaifu

**AN:** _Thanks for the review, Guest! ^_^_

* * *

"…What I don't get," Davis was saying as the train pulled to a stop, "is supposing there are, like, gods or buddhas or whatever, and okay, even if you spend your whole life praying to the wrong ones, whichever the _right_ ones are, they give you a pass. But still, aren't they gonna know if you only pray when you want stuff? I mean they're not stupid, are they?" He peered through the window opposite them at a few scraggly clouds troubling the underbelly of a huge, magnificently blue sky. "Or what if they _are_? Huh. That would explain a lot."

Kugiyama sat calmly with his feet splayed, a black cloth bag carefully spread over his knees. He was squinting against the sunlight pouring through the window, although Davis, his eyes darting everywhere, was not likewise bothered. "Your error, my blasphemous friend," he said, "is in assuming the gods are sitting around on a couch watching their daytime soaps, and a prayer is like a phone ringing in the other room and they have to get up and answer it. The gods _like_ answering prayers. That's why they're gods. Sure, sometimes they can't answer them all, but that doesn't mean they're not trying."

The soft female voice of the station announcement overlapped his last words: "We are now arriving at…Dazaifu. Passengers for Dazaifu Tenmangu Shrine and the Kyushu National Museum, please disembark here, at…Dazaifu."

"…all I know is," said Kugiyama as he got up and shouldered his bag, "if we _don't_ get these knives blessed, and we end up losing big at the ramen show, we'll know exactly who to blame, won't we?"

They walked down the narrow concrete platform toward the turnstiles. Davis leaned back, as usual, with his hands laced behind his head. The day was heartbreakingly beautiful. Dazaifu was located in a basin of shallow green hills; a green basin full of the blue sky and pure white sunlight.

"Well, good thing I got you around, 'ol buddy. Since you know everything, and I don't know jack, I guess between the two of us, we know everything!" He laughed. "Oh, hey, wanna stop in Ichiran for lunch?"

Kugiyama set his jaw. "Why don't we just cut out our tongues and rub them in an ashtray."

"Aw, c'mon, man, Ichiran's not that bad. I mean, it's nothing special, sure, but it's a decent bowl of noodles."

They were passing an advertisement for the famous ramen chain, splashed in its signature, Christmasy red and dark green on the side of a building.

"Ichiran is a symbol of everything wrong with the modern world," said Kugiyama, looking doggedly ahead. "Think about it. They put you in a little booth with a screen down, so you don't even have to look at the person serving your noodles. Then you get to customize everything—_noodle_ thickness. _Broth_ thickness. Spiciness.—They even let you choose which _toppings_ you want. Can you think of anything that more perfectly sums up how picky and self-absorbed people are these days? In my dad's time, there was one big table, and everyone sat down at the table and ate whatever there _was_ that day."

"Like at our stall."

"Exactly," Kugiyama huffed. "I thought you understood that. Honestly, Motomiya. _Ichiran_."

"Sti-ill," Davis grinned sideways at him, "if you fill out the order form ju-ust right, it's pretty good there."

"Shut up."

Davis ticked on his fingers: "Skinny noodles, extra tough—of course—six times spicy, white onions, extra onions, normal broth."

"I said I don't want to hear about it!"

"Oh yeah, and extra garlic, and egg."

They went down the wide boulevard toward Tenmangu Shrine, lined on either side with high-end boutiques and gift shops. The goods on display ranged from authentic local handicraft, like tiny owls painstakingly carved out of wood, to more generic souvenirs like umbrellas and plastic samurai swords. Davis stopped to buy a soft-serve vanilla ice cream. When he returned, already frantically dabbing at the melting ice cream with a napkin, he said innocently:

"Still, you don't have to be such a snob. Food's supposed to be for the customer's sake, not the chef's. I mean, at the end of the day, if it makes people happy, so what?"

Turning a corner, they came suddenly to the end of Tenmangu's famous three-humped bridge. The red wooden bridge straddled a series of beautiful, classically-landscaped ponds, in the shade of ancient cypress and cryptomeria trees; and its three sections (as Kugiyama knew, and Davis, although it had been explained to him at some point, did not remember) represented—first—a larger hump for hard times in the past; a flat section for the relative happiness of the present; and a final, smaller hump representing hard times yet to come. Kugiyama passed over the bridge ahead of Davis in pious silence, and only when they had crossed, and stood within sight of the shrine itself, did he answer:

"People don't always know what's best for them."

The inner sanctuary of Tenmangu, its sloping thatched roof, was just visible inside the decorative outer wall; vividly red, finely worked with carvings and illustrations in a delicate range of pastel.

Dedicated to Tenjin, the God of Scholars, the thousand-year-old shrine was the center of several museums, and a favorite haunt of students and tourists alike.

They waited outside while Davis finished his ice cream.

Kugiyama snapped his fingers.

"Oh, hell—forgot all about it. I'm sorry. There was this customer at the stall last night, asked me to give you his card. He seemed like he—"

But Davis interrupted. "Whoa," he whispered, nudging him, "check out the foreigner."

"Davis!"

"Wha-at, it's not like he can hear me even if he could understand me. I think he looks cool, that's all."

Then, as they both observed the tall foreign-looking man who, with a reverent attitude, was washing his hands in the ritual spring outside the shrine gate, surrounded by several other men like himself in dark suits—charitably speaking, he looked like some politician; uncharitably, like a gangster with bodyguards—both their noses twitched. They looked at each other. No question, even fifteen feet away, they could smell it on him.

"Ramen," hissed Kugiyama.

"Let's not get carried away, m-maybe he just ate at Ichiran…"

Kugiyama gripped him by the collar. "Motomiya, you know as well as I do you don't pick up a stink like that by _eating_ ramen. Shit, he must be in town for the show!"

The man—now he was craning his head back to observe the tree branches overhead, while they cast their gentle dappled shadows on his face—had a long, thin dark beard, and sensitive-looking eyes.

"Oh, crap," Kugiyama moaned softly, "he looks tough. Look at all those bags they've got. They're not just blessing their knives, I bet they've come to bless their pots and pans too!"

"Calm down! He's a foreigner, I bet he worships Jesus or something…" But Davis immediately flinched, as if he had just wondered if worshipping Jesus were more effective, and if, just to game the odds, one of them should convert.

Kugiyama thrust the bag of knives into his arms, making it click menacingly. "Don't be an idiot. All right, listen up, I'm going to stall him. You get the hell in there and get these knives _blessed_. If we beat him to it by a couple of minutes, it could be all the edge we need."

"Um, you know what, this is like the only tourist spot around here, so it's not that surprising a foreigner would be here. Maybe they have all those bags because they just got into town and their hotel is around here…"

"Mo-to-miya! It's bad enough my partner's from Tokyo—no offense—but I'm not telling my old man we lost the Fukuoka Ramen Show to some jerk from another _country_ because you couldn't get your ass in there to imbue these knives with the power of Tenjin-sama. Now _get_!"

"O-okay!"

Practically juggling the clanking, squeaking bag of knives, Davis tripped underneath the big _san-mon_ gate into the courtyard filled with small cherry trees and fine white gravel. A big line of petitioners stretched toward the inner sanctuary, and the faint sound of chanting and ringing bells could be heard. The service must be on.

He sucked in a deep breath, pressed the knives to his chest, then, cringing, thought better of it and held them at arm's length.

It was peaceful inside the shrine walls. The people ahead of him in line waited patiently. Catching his breath, and wondering with a smile what kind of diversion Kugiyama was planning, Davis heard a voice behind him so faint, calm, and gently mocking, that he assumed it was some kind of god or spirit without feeling even a touch of surprise.

"Got something on your nose."

As if in a trance, he reached up and brushed away a tiny cold fleck of ice cream, that sat on the pad of his thumb like a snowflake.

"That's better."

Davis' spine tingled, and whipping his head around, he fully expected not to see anybody—only empty air. But there was somebody, standing directly behind him and watching him with a singular expression of pity, curiosity, mockery, and affection that he had never seen on any other face in his entire life.

"Um," he said, swallowing. "Hey."

"Hey, you."


	4. Blessing

**AN:** _Thanks for the reviews, everyone! _

_I should note that almost every place described here is a real one; I lived in Fukuoka for about a year and a half._

_I ate so much ramen._

* * *

Kari wore a white sundress that mixed blindingly into the plaster wall behind her, like the stain of early morning light trapped in white curtains. Her face and neck and slender arms that had always looked so pale in contrast to the pink bars of her sweater now looked brown, vital and healthy, inside the bright cloud of fabric and plaster.

A memory overwhelmed Davis' brain with a strength and sweetness as if he had just taken a shot of whiskey. He'd known, from the moment he knew that she was _different_ like himself, like the others, what form her powers would take; that she would be surrounded perpetually by a halo of angel feathers and cat's whiskers. It was like all first crushes, stories of first crushes he'd heard from friends both male and female over the years, who became everything assumed and anticipated about the opposite sex as if remembered from a previous life, and for a very long time he had managed to convince himself it was nothing more than that.

His jaw was hanging open and he must have looked ridiculous because she was laughing at him, trembling delicately with three fingertips pressed to her mouth. It was good to be laughed at sometimes, he thought.

"O h-hey, angel, I thought you were Kari.—Wait no, I mean Kari, I thought you were an angel."

Shit. Should have played it off as a joke. But she was laughing anyway, what did it matter?

"Very smooth, Motomiya. What's that you've got there?" She tipped her small chin. "Bringing your firstborn child to get blessed?"

The idea was so shocking—as if the child might be theirs—that it took him a moment to realize that the swaddled-up knives did look something like an infant, cradled in his arms.

"Jeez," he said, prying out one sharp blade with his fingertips that flashed in the light, "I sure hope not."

She laughed again.

"You know," she said, talking so quickly and animatedly as if they hadn't seen each other in a matter of minutes, not years, "you _so_ haven't changed, but I'm not just saying that. It's like if I could draw a picture, or take a magic photograph of how I thought you'd look, it'd be just like you look."

Davis unconsciously let the bag fall slightly over his protruding belly.

"It's so weird," he answered in almost the instant she stopped talking, "cuz that's exactly how I feel about _you_.—But hey, what the heck're you doing here? I mean why didn't you get in touch if you were coming to town? I thought everyone knew I was down here…"

"Oh it was TK's idea. I think he wanted to surprise you. Or surprise him_self_, really, is more like it. You know he's an artist and he's got all these odd ideas about how we should experience things…"

The conversation, that had been flowing so rapidly, skidded to an uncomfortable halt. But after scratching the back of his neck, Davis picked up again:

"Um listen, it's super great to see you and all, but can we walk and talk? I kind of promised my partner I'd get these knives blessed. I mean not my _partner_ partner. My business partner."

"Oh…don't tell me it's for the show! That ramen show thing. Oh, that is just adorable. Did you guys really come all the way out here?" But her eyes narrowed skeptically as they followed the long train of people waiting to approach the inner sanctum. "I'm no expert, but I get the feeling today might be some kind of holy day. It'll be practically an hour before you get to the front of that line."

"Oh. Yeesh, I bet you're right. Maybe the moon is in phase or it's the Buddha's birthday. Kugi would know about that kind of thing.—Kugiyama, that's my partner. He's real superstitious. It's funny, he's such a sarcastic guy, you can't tell if he's serious about it, but I kind of get the feeling he is…"

Kari snapped her fingers. A shrewd, sensible edge that he also remembered often hearing in her voice was creeping into it. "Tell you what. I said I'm no expert, but you know? My dad's cousin is a priest, and I don't know if you remember, but this one winter in college I worked as a shrine maiden at his place way out in Saitama prefecture. Just to make a little money…and get some fresh country air."

"You mean…?"

"Did they teach me how to bless knives?" She grinned. "Of course not. Who blesses _knives_? That's just silly. But whenever people would bring something to the temple, like their car, or maybe their cat or dog, my dad's cousin would just wave his hands over it for a couple of minutes. He'd look real serious too. Then he'd tell them it was done."

"Does that…?" Davis blinked slowly, feeling stupid. "I mean, does it work?"

She shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they thought it did, and that was good enough. So, watch."

With a businesslike dispatch she took the bang from him—he flinched slightly when her hand brushed his—held it close to her chest, with her eyes shut, and began to emit a very low-pitched humming noise deep in her chest. Davis watched, looking impressed. After a minute, she opened her big luminous eyes again and smiled.

"All done."

"Really?"

"Sure. Trust me," she winked, "I was a shrine maiden."

"Wow!" said Davis, without a hint of irony, "it sure is lucky I ran into you!" and Kari favored him with another smile, bemused, as if she could not decide whether he had failed to understand her, or had understood her perfectly.

A voice startled them both.

"Merciful gods, why did I trust this playboy with my business future?—Davis! Davis, what d'you think you're doing?"

"Oh—hey, Kugi! Y-you got it all wrong, this is an old friend of mine. Kari Kamiya. From Tokyo."

"Old girlfriend?"

"An old girl who is a friend, yeah. I-I mean an old friend who's a girl. Not that _she's_ old."

"Pleasure to meet you." Kari stuck out her hand. "Davis told me so much about you."

Kugiyama looked mystified. "How could he have? You haven't been talking more than five minutes. Which reminds me…"

"Chill!" Davis held up his hands. "We took care of it, didn't we?"

And seeing the wide-open face of his friend, the most honest man he had ever met, Kugiyama had no choice but to mutter: "Really? Well…good job, then. False alarm about that foreigner, anyway. He was going, not coming." He shrank slightly. "I ah, didn't have the guts to talk to him in the end. But I think I heard one of his friends call him _Marcel_. What's that, German?"

"I think it's French," said Kari.

"Huh! Good thing we ran into you.—Oh. _You're_ the one that guy was talking about. Same camera and everything"

"That guy, who?" said Davis.

"Nevermind now."

"Um, speaking of which," said Davis, "what the heck _are_ you doing here, anyway?"

She patted the camera hanging around her neck. "It's a nice day. I thought I'd collect a few shots."

"That's cool. What about…y'know, _him_?"

* * *

TK stared at the cell phone lying on the desk. The lights in the hotel room were off, but it was a bright day and a white pool stood under the curtains. The phone cast a very faint shadow that sank into the water-like reflective surface of the black plastic desk, and the blur of his own head was visible nearby. He reached out and lifted it, turning it over like a flat stone in his palm, with a nonplussed expression on his face and in his tired eyes.

One missed call. He tapped the screen and redialed.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line was a faint scratching noise. TK rocked his chair back, bracing one foot against the desk and, idly reaching out, picked up the red pen that came with the hotel stationary and stuck the end between his teeth.

"I saw you called," he said. "I just wondered what was up."

More faint speech. He pressed on his forehead, seeming to think.

"She's…fine. A little, oh. What's the word I'm looking for. Giddy. A little emotional, maybe. Which is not surprising after what she's been through. I think she's just relieved to be out of the big city. Yes…well, yeah, when you put it that way, I think it _is_ doing her good.

"What's that?—Well—honestly, Tai. If you're that worried about her, I think maybe you should come down and look after her yourself. You decided you were okay with this, and to be honest? Maybe I'm not the best chaperon. I mean, I have some issues myself—no, _I'm _fine. At least for now. I'm just saying, remember how things used to be?"

He got up, balancing the phone against his shoulder, and pulled back the curtains. The dazzling light assaulted his weak eyes, and he quickly turned his head away.

"I always had to be _on_…you know? I always had to be the one smiling and…dancing around. You know what I mean. And that was easy when I was a kid, but maybe it's not so easy these days. And…maybe it's the same with Kari. Maybe she just got tired of what other people expected of her. I think you should give her some space, Tai…and I'm going to try and do the same."


	5. Fishbowls

**AN**: _Hey, everybody! Woof, it's been a long, long time. To be honest, I don't remember why I put this story down, but I do remember why I started it. It was a shot of nostalgia brought on by a trip to Japan, and, as I think I said in a note on my other Digimon story, watching Digimon as a kid had a lot to do with my ending up there in the first place. Well, now I've made another trip, so I'm writing again. How long will it last? Until the end, hopefully ^_^_

_Cheers,_

_Incanto_

* * *

Why did it strike Davis as somehow sad that T.K. shouldn't know where the Tenjin Big Screen was?

Obviously he wouldn't. While Davis had been getting fat in Fukuoka, T.K. the great writer had been getting thin running all over the place, from Tokyo to Kyoto, and if memory served he'd even lived abroad. There was no reason the big television screen inside of Nishitetsu Tenjin Station, where the boys and girls of Fukuoka met their friends, their boyfriends and girlfriends, every Friday and Saturday night without fail and sometimes on nights in-between, should be any more familiar to T.K. than the streets of Paris, or wherever it had been, would be familiar to Davis. But when he saw the text asking for directions (Kari had of course connected them), it seemed to hammer in the meaning of something he had said to her just a moment before, as they walked cheerfully down the station steps, in reply to her question:

_So what's it been like living in Fukuoka?_

_Well, _he'd screwed up his face,_ it's kinda like living in a big fishbowl. But not, like, a nasty fishbowl with bits of half-eaten food and stuff. A nice fishbowl with lots of plants and, and different kinds of fish, and…_

Slouching along behind them, Kugiyama put in: _You'd better mercy-kill that metaphor before it stumbles along any further, Motomiya._

_Shut up! What're you even _doing_ here, anyway?_

_I don't feel like running the stall alone. If you're going off on your date, I'll come too, and since from the sound of it you've already picked up a third wheel, I'll make four. Four wheels are good, right?_

Now the three of them were standing in front of the Tenjin Big Screen, three goldfish observing the glistening wall of their tank. It was all so simple, Davis thought. The Nishitetsu line connected Dazaifu with downtown Tenjin. From there, the subway line ran underneath the Nakagawa river, where the stalls were, to Hakata Station, which joined Fukuoka to the bullet train line running the length of Japan. A better metaphor, that he had lost the opportunity to use, now came to mind. Living in Fukuoka was like eating ramen with a broth so silky, so smooth, you hardly felt it passing over your tongue, hardly even realized you were eating, it was that easy.

"Holy shit," said Kugiyama, blinking. "It's that guy."

Speaking of ramen, thought Davis.

"You mean the guy you were talking about? At the shrine?" said Kari. "No way…"

The dark, soulful face almost entirely filling the screen above their heads belonged to the putative Frenchman, Marcel, although the caption underneath it only identified him as _gaikoku no kata_—a far more respectful version of the term _gaijin_ with which Davis had referred to him—the first _gaikoku no kata_ to enter, as they had suspected, the Fukuoka Ramen Show.

His speech as he answered the reporter's question was overdubbed in Japanese, although a snatch of it was audible just before the dubbing started, breathy and contemplative:

"It has nothing to do with nationality," he said. "If you study, you know things. If you don't study, you know nothing at all."

"_Dang_ he's smooth," said Kugiyama, grudgingly. "He sounds like my dad…"

Marcel went on: "Those who have the same ambitions, dream the same dreams. Those who dream the same dreams, speak the same language."

In the style of the more sensationalistic news programs, this saying immediately appeared on the screen, embossed in a fancy gold font, while the reporting crew made gasps of approval; although when his face reappeared, Marcel merely looked embarrassed.

"_Sensei_," said one of the male reporters, leaning in, "can you give us any clue as to what kind of ramen you'll be entering in the show? Just the category of the broth, perhaps?"

As if speaking for Marcel, Kugiyama murmured: "Never show a fool half a job. We'll find out soon enough."

But while Kugiyama's guess that he would refuse to divulge the secret was most likely correct, they were prevented from finding out in any case by a call from behind.

"Davis! Kari!…Guy! Hey, there."

They whirled around. T.K. was standing, in a way that appeared calculated, on the station steps, exactly four steps off the ground, seemingly having just come down himself. He stood above them, but seemed apologetic for doing so, like a humble king, and his tousled blonde hair looked as if he had just removed his hat—which he held in one hand—out of respect. He was, thought Davis, a man who knew how to make his entrance. But there was nothing artificial in the way his blue eyes faintly sparkled, catching the bright white light inside the station and the light from the screen, as he looked down at them.

"Um," said Davis, "hey."

And suddenly Kari was dragging him forward, as if the whole point of the rendezvous had been bringing the two of them together.

T.K. put his hat back on. With each downward step he took, he snapped his fingers, and when he reached the ground he held out one hand as if to prevent Davis from hugging him (which he'd had no intention of doing), raised both his hands and framed Davis' face with four fingers like a portrait, squinting approvingly at what he saw. Then he laughed.

"You haven't changed a bit."

"Liar. I put on like fifteen pounds."

"Yeah," said T.K., sounder younger than his dapper appearance had made him look, "but you were always a little chubby…on the inside. Just like I was always thin inside, even when I was nine years old and chubby. What's it they say? _Laugh and grow fat. Worry and get skinny._"

"What on earth _you've_ got to worry about," said Davis, grinning, "I'm sure I don't know."

"You might be surprised."

"I'm confused." The voice was Kugiyama's, who, standing a shade taller than any of them, stood over them like a spectator peering over the wall of a zoo enclosure. "Which one of you used to go out with who?"

Davis blushed.

"Um, for your information, none of us ever…I mean…"

"Because at first I thought it was you and _her_, even though you played it all coy, but now I'm not so sure."

"What makes you think any of us went out with anyone! I mean I'm sure we _have_, but not each other.—Um." Davis looked rapidly from Kari to T.K. "Right?"

Kari stuck out her tongue. "Wouldn't you _both_ like to know? T.K., Mr. Nosy here is Kugi, Davis's business partner. It seems like our timing wasn't very good because they have to ride into culinary battle against some Frenchman pretty soon, and I'm sure we're distracting them."

T.K. laughed.

"When is the show again?" he asked.

"Four days from now," said Davis.

"Then let's eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die, as they say. We've got a lot of catching up to do. Or aren't you going to show us Fukuoka's famous hospitality?"

T.K. was so glib, so self-assured, under the bright modern station lights, that Davis stumbled, unsure of himself.

"Sure," he muttered, "I guess. Hey. Where are you guys staying?"

"The Nishitetsu Inn. Is that," he glanced around, "the same company that runs this train, by any chance?"

"Yep. They run a lot of things around here."

"Fascinating. You'll have to fill me in on all this local color. Don't you know it's where us authors get our material? Once you're famous, you don't have to do the work; if they hear you're a writer, people bring their stories to you.—I forget who said that. It's true, though."

"I wish being a chef were that easy," said Kugiyama. "The customers sure as hell don't bring the ramen to you, no matter how famous you get."

"I bet," said T.K., moving between Davis and Kugiyama, and seeming to put his hands on both their shoulders, although he let them hover slightly behind, "you're sick of ramen and everything to do with it. Let's just walk down the street until we see someplace fancy—anything _but_ ramen—and order up all the best they've go. My treat."

"Oh man, I couldn't…!"

"Oh, hush. I insist. Once you've won the big prize money for your show—I assume there _is_ prize money—you can treat me. All right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's right. One condition, though."

"Hmm?"

"Keep the check for tonight, 'cause I'm gonna treat you to something even _more_ expensive," Davis said, with a shade more bravado than he felt. "Deal?"

T.K. smiled so broadly that his eyes seemed to vanish in the network of premature wrinkles surrounding them. "Deal."

They shook.


	6. Princes

**AN**: _As much as I've tried to make the story accurate to my experience of life in Japan, I realize I'm pushing it with a few of the pop culture references, not to mention the karaoke song selections, in this chapter. Plus all the authors TK quotes are western. No biggie?_ ^_^_ I do like the explanation I come up with, here, for why some of them have non-Japanese nicknames._

_Also this chapter, among other things, reminded me of one of the greatest things ever created by a human being: Goth TK from The Lost Temple of Ishida. If you're too young to remember this old relic of the fandom, do yourself a favor and google it; I believe the Internet Wayback Machine saved a copy. I don't think it will let me post a link here._

_Oh, and thanks very much for the glowing review, Guest! I'm glad I was able to continue this story too,_

_—Incanto_

* * *

The path from Nishitetsu Tenjin station led under the covered arcades of Shintencho, past restaurants and clothing boutiques, toward central Tenjin. In spite of Davis' promise to fill in his guests on the local color, it was TK who ended up having to explain to him that this _Tenjin_ was the same as the scholar-god enshrined in Dazaifu's Tenmangu shrine:

"Jeez, really? I guess I never put two and two together."

"_Thank_ you," said Kugiyama, "I know I've told this blockhead about six times, but it never sinks in. As far as he's concerned, the world might as well have been created five minutes ago. But you've got your head screwed on straight, TJ…"

"It's TK, actually."

"Don't worry," said Davis, "it took me a while to get it right. Hey," as if it had just occurred to him, "what's the deal with that, anyway? Does it, like, stand for something?"

"It's short for Takeru. I thought that was fairly obvious."

"You sure it isn't _Totally Kewl_?" offered Kari, grinning.

"_Too Kewl_?" guessed Davis.

"_Too Kewl For School_? It was the 90's after all."

Davis was nodding. "That does sound like kind of a 90's thing. I guess it makes sense."

"Except it doesn't because it isn't true, and Kari just made it up.—Why does everyone call you Davis, anyway? I always wondered about that."

"Oh. Huh, I can't believe that never came up. See, they had this foreign English teacher at the cram school I went to. He couldn't remember our Japanese names, so he gave us English names to keep track of us. He must not've been very imaginative either. There were like three Davises in my class alone. I kind of liked it though, so it stuck."

Kugiyama raised his hand. "This is changing the subject, but can somebody please explain to me what these _90's_ are that you old-timers are always banging on about?

Davis looked shocked. "Oh, yeah. Wow. I keep forgetting you're like four years younger than me. Were you even born in the 90's, Kugi?"

"Just barely. I wasn't forming memories for most of it."

"Oh…"

The eyes of the three older people, as they looked up at the sparkling lights of nighttime Tenjin that crowded them on either side of the narrow street, were distant. They seemed to be remembering something held in common. Then they passed a karaoke parlor, a _Karaoke-kan_, and Kari tugged on TK's sleeve and pointed gleefully:

"Hey, we can show him! Isn't that right?"

"Wha-at…now? C'mon, I'm starving!"

"They have food in karaoke places. Hey, as I recall, you've got a nice voice. Pre-etty please? For _me_?" She hardly needed to bat her eyelashes; their slightest flicker knocked Davis spinning, and he leaned against the doorway with a sigh and a helpless, sweet-natured look:

"Okay, fine—but only 'cause it's TJ's treat tonight."

"Ahem. It's not wise to anger your sponsor, Davis."

"Sorry, TB. Sorry, big man."

"I'm warning you."

"Jeez! You know I'm just kidding, TZ."

"Try again."

"TMI. TRL."

As the pair mock-wrestled their way inside the parlor, Kari, escorting Kugiyama, took his arm and began to explain: "See, the first thing you have to understand about the 90's is that everything lit up and made beeping noises, like, _dee-dee-dee_. Like, shoes, yo-yos, and your Gameboy when you turned it on."

"What's a yo-yo?"

"Better hold your questions until the end, or this might take forever.—Anyway, music was kind of the same. Like, there was the X-Files theme which went,_ dee-dee, dee-dee, dee-dee_. Or that Third Eye Blind song that went, _doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo._ There was a lot of beeping going on. Then the theme song from Daria went_ nah-nah-nah, nah-nah_ and the bridge from that song by Blink 182 went_ nah-nah, nah-nah, nah-nah-nah-nah-nah_. A lot of that, too."

"It sounds incredible."

"Don't laugh!" She poked him in the ribs. "The day will come for you, too, mister."

* * *

_One, two_

_ Princes kneel before you_

_ That's what I said, now_

_ Princes, princes who adore you_

_ Just go ahead now…_

As TK and Davis belted out the song, Kari collapsed backward onto the leather sofa, wiping away tears of hysterical mirth. Their English pronunciation was nothing to write home about, but their voices, TK's higher, Davis's lower, blended beautifully.

Kugiyama looked thoughtful. In the lull created by the instrumental—during which TK and Davis, both more than a little tipsy, played air guitar together—he leaned over and whispered to Kari:

"Y'know what? I'm sorry. I think I misjudged you guys."

"H-how so?"

"I always thought Davis didn't have any culture because he didn't know jack about history, or much of anything for that matter. And to be honest, I kind of thought all Tokyo people were like that. But I guess you do know something about history—your own history."

"The song's not _that_ old!"

"Maybe not," he shrugged, "but it's been around for long enough that somebody had to bother remembering it."

"What's next? What's next?" The boys huddled over the box on which you tapped the stylus to input songs, their faces glowing like strings of Christmas lights. Davis called across to Kari: "Hey, you put in something!"

"It's okay." She smiled back, more softly. "I like watching you guys."

"Yeah, come on, Kari!" TK chimed in, his voice growing clearer rather than hoarser the more he sang, and sounding younger than ever. "It's my money you're wasting if you don't even sing one, and there's gratitude for you!"

"Oh, _fine_," with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she pulled the box toward her across the table, "since I can see there's no other way of shutting you guys up…"

"Yay!"

"All right!"

"But I'm not doing the whole thing. I'll chime in on the chorus, that's all."

Then when they saw the song's title appear on the screen, TK and Davis both nodded softly in comprehension. By unspoken understanding, Davis got up to sing the first verse:

_ I was lying on the grass, a Sunday morning of last week,_

_ Indulging in my self-defeat…_

When the chorus of the song with its gentle, hypnotic rhythm finally looped around, Kari, as promised, sung faintly into the microphone: "If you steal my sunshine…"

"_Making sure I'm not in too deep_…"

"If you steal my sunshine…"

"_Keeping versed and on my feet_…"

"If you steal my sunshine, my sunshi-ine…"

When the song was over, leaving everyone, Kugiyama included, with a vague and bittersweet expression, TK got suddenly to his feet. Kari squinted at him.

"Just where are you off to?"

"The bathroom."

"You just _went_ to the bathroom."

"All right!" He laughed lightly, holding up his hands. "You caught me. I just couldn't hold out any longer. But it's my first one today, promise."

"Oh—fine, but hurry right back, okay?"

"What's she talking about?" Davis stared at TK, wide-eyed and a bit uneasy.

With a rueful smile, TK removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

* * *

Davis joined him on the small balcony that let out of the hallway, squeezing through a sliding door. They were on a fourth story, overlooking a packed Tenjin street, and the lights lapped at their toes and ankles. A light breeze had come up, and TK had to cup his hand around the lighter until the flame caught, and he inhaled gratefully, then let the smoke jet in two narrow streams from his nostrils, and it rose, quick and invisible, into the night air.

"Look," he said, "let me just spit it out. There's something you should know about Kari and me."

"Man, I knew it. W-well, good for you. You don't have to hide anything from me, I mean…"

"No. No, it's not what you think." TK raised his head, and his eyes, as they had seemed to be in the split-second Davis first saw him, were sad, although he was still smiling. "It's worse."

"Oh."

"The truth is," and TK tapped his cigarette into a standing ashtray nearby, and glanced down at it, "I picked up this habit trying to quit something worse. Kari and me both did. So we did this, together, for a while. Now she's done. I'm still working on it."

"What do you mean…something worse?"

"In my case?" TK mimed drinking. "_Glug, glug_. Don't worry. It wasn't _that_ bad. It's not like I went crazy, and it's not like I can't drink anymore—although, to be honest, I shouldn't. Tonight's special, though."

"Um, are you sure about that?"

"Sure, I'm sure. I just got carried away for a while. It's the stress of the job…always traveling. It, well, it runs in my family, too. But I realized what was up, and I checked myself into a place for a while. That was about a year ago."

Davis's attitude was calm and patient, although his eyes still betrayed a quiet shock.

"Okay. What about Kari, though? You said…"

"Let's just say that in her case, it was something a bit harder than alcohol."

"Oh."

"Hey. You know the life she was leading. Photography, modeling, journalism…the candle that burns brightest, burns fastest, etcetera. Anyway, we went through it at about the same time; and we kind of ended up reaching out to each other. I'm still not entirely sure how it happened. But we didn't want our families to know about it until it was good and over. They did kind of end up finding out later, though. So it's not like it's a big secret or anything."

"Then…did you…?"

"Date? Ha. No."

TK looked amused, even gratified, as if he understood that it was in Davis's nature that he had to be satisfied on the point, whatever his other feelings might be.

"In fact," he ashed again, and looked away, out across the street, "that's kind of what I came here to do."

"What d'you mean? You're losing me, man. Came here to date her? But you could do that in Tokyo, right…?"

TK seemed abruptly to change the subject.

"Davis, you know the word _nostalgic_? It's English for _natsukashii_. Well, it's English, but the root's Greek."

"Sure. It kind of rings a bell. What about it?"

"Well, _nostos_ mean a journey home._ Algia_ means pain."

"The pain of the journey home…huh?"

"That's right. But the only thing sadder than _not anymore _is _never again_."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that life is really sad, but it's sad in a way that keeps it from being even sadder. D'you know what I mean? Because the saddest thought is that maybe, just maybe, nothing in life really makes sense, or means anything, that it's over before you know it and…that's it. But as long as you remember things, they make you sad, but they seem so real that you know it all must mean something. Because only real things can hurt you. It's like you're tethered to them, floating in time, and when the rope tugs on you, that hurts. But when you feel that tug, you know that _it_ must still be there on the other end, even if it's very far away…"

They were both silent for a while. TK's cigarette had long since burned down, and he let it drop with a faint hiss into the ashtray.

"Man," said Davis. "No wonder you're a writer."

"Well. I didn't think it up to impress _you_, Motomiya. Harr, harr.—I want Kari to stay here with you."

"Wh-what! Whoa, where'd that come from?"

"I've made up my mind. I think she'd be happier here. With you. Whether she's, you know, _with_ you, well, that's up to the two of you. But recently Kari and I have been about as close as it's possible for two people to be…and, it just never happened. She deserves to be happy, though. You, too. How'd that song go? _Two princes_? Well, this prince is abdicating. She's yours."

Davis nodded silently. Then, after seeming to gather his thoughts, he spoke.

"So…what? I'm supposed to take her off your hands? Is that how this works?"

"No…"

"Man, I'm surprised at you. Kari's not some _thing_ you can give away like an old coat."

"I-I didn't say…!"

"Okay, okay. You didn't. Yeesh. Sorry. This is big for me too, okay? I mean I hadn't even _seen_ you guys in years and years a-and, you show _up_, we have a great _time_, then you tell me all this stuff…"

"You're right, it wasn't…"

"No, no, I can take it. It's okay. And I'm glad. I'm glad you told me and everything. I'm glad you're _here_, I'm glad…I-I'm glad you're both okay. But, TK. Seriously, man. You didn't think it was going to be _that_ easy…did you?"

"What what do you mean?"

"What I _mean_ is that I'm not gonna let you abdicate. No way. I mean, have you talked to Kari about this?"

"Not in so many words, no."

"Then what about how _she_ feels? Listen, man. Don't get me wrong. I'd like to win. I feel pretty much the same about her as I always did, I realized that today. But if I win, it's fair and square. You can bet I'm gonna gloat, and you can bet I'm gonna run a victory lap around you—but I'm not winning on any technicality or any _abdication_, and the choice is for her to make, not me or you—" He stopped to take a deep breath, then leaned on the railing and took several more. "Oof. Oh, man."

TK reached out as if to steady him, although the rawness of their exchange had created a distance between them that somehow made this not quite possible. Trying to smile, he spoke again:

"But you want it."

"Of course. I mean...is it love? I don't know! I dunno if I've ever been in love. But, it's pretty strong. I'd like to be with her. I'd like to give it a try, at least."

"Does she know that?"

"Well, come on. I, I think I made it pretty obvious back in the day."

"Did you? But that was then, this is now. If that's how you feel, I think you should tell her. That is, if you're up for it."

"What if she says no? What if she'd rather be with you—or neither of us? Because…heck, man. If she even found out about this conversation, it'd make things pretty awkward between all three of us, no matter _what_ happened."

"I guess," said TK, smiling a bit more steadily now, "we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Okay?"

"Okay."

For the second time that day, they shook hands.


	7. Advice

"I was wondering if I might run into you," said T.K.

He stood on the steps of the Fukuoka Art Museum, a low-slung brick building that seemed to melt into the surrounding Ohori Park, looking down at a man seated on a park bench, and interposing his thin shadow between the man and the bright sun in an untroubled noon sky. The park was very green and the sky overhead a deep blue.

The man looked startled that T.K. addressed him in nearly perfect French.

"Pardon?" he said, drawing up his thick eyebrows and meaty, creased forehead.

"It's just, a friend of mine was telling me last night that Fukuoka is like a fishbowl. If you're in a bowl with other fish, you tend to run into each other sooner or later."

"Be that as it may, but you have me at a disadvantage, Mr…?"

"Oh," said T.K., drawing back with a shy smile, "of course you don't know me. I guess seeing your face on TV doesn't mean the acquaintance is mutual.—My name's Takaishi."

"Ta-ka-ishi."

Marcel, who wore dark, heavy clothes in spite of the fine weather, rolled the name on his tongue in much the way it was pronounced in Japanese. Then he looked surprised again.

"But, this is rather incredible. I seem to have heard of you. You are not, by any chance, an author…?"

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid."

"And you write the books for children?"

"I…did write a few kid's books, yeah. While I was living in Paris. My publisher thought they'd be easy translations, and before I left, I guess I do remember seeing a few of them in bookstores."

"You lived in Paris! But please, you must join me," and he patted the bench beside him. There was something clumsy in his solicitude, in the welcoming sweep of his large hand, as if he had not had cause to be friendly in a while. T.K. sat down. The path in front of them was dry, and a faint haze of brown dirt rolled away toward the glittering water of one of the artificial lakes at the center of the park. T.K. took off his hat and set it over his knees.

"Ah!" Marcel laughed. "That explains why you speak such good French, and like a Parisian at that. I ought to have known. These books, you worked with a French illustrator, yes? Though I can't seem to recall the name of the fellow."

"Glass," said T.K.

"Yes. Rodolphe Glass. I have met him. I have a great appreciation of his style, and while the memory is inexact, I believe the books on which you two collaborated were rather good."

"I ah, like to think so."

"The one, yes, it had all those people, Glass is good at drawing different kinds of people, it had ladies, you know, in great dresses with feathers in their hair, and military officers with all sorts of buttons and decorations, and ordinary people also; a stock broker wearing a plain suit, a little boy of about nine or ten with a, what do you, a catapult or slingshot—the English call it a catapult—hanging out of his pocket. _I Am Pleased to Know You_. That's what it was called."

"_I Am Pleased to Know You_," T.K. repeated, smiling more deeply in spite of himself.

"There was that little rhyme, I don't recall exactly how it went…_I am pleased to know you_, because if I had not known you, my life would be poorer, that was the upshot of it, and all these different kinds of people were saying it to each other…the military officer saying it to a little girl, and so on.—I thought it was affecting stuff."

"Thanks…"

"I can only assume," said Marcel, checking his enthusiasm a bit, and becoming more serious, "that these were reflections brought on by your coming to France, and meeting the different kinds of people there?"

"I…guess that wouldn't be far wrong."

This caused Marcel to shut his eyes. He seemed moved, although it was unclear exactly what he might be thinking. He got to his feet, then, just as quickly, he sat back down and put one hand on his forehead.

"Ah, but the artist is a foreigner even in his own country. He is a country onto himself. He brings things out of himself, hoping they might please other people, like a farmer bringing his produce to market from a very long way away."

"You think you're an artist?"

"But of course! What else would you have called me?"

"I'd have called you a chef."

"Ah. I see. It is a fine distinction, I suppose. But if I am to be entirely honest with you…I think that I have too much of the artist in me. Too little of the chef. And if I cannot do what I came here to do, that will be the reason for it."

"You mean winning the…?"

"Shh! Not so loud." But Marcel chuckled even more distinctly than before. "They are listening everywhere. The journalists and reporters. They would love to pick up some crumb, some clue of what I am up to…"

The park, however, was deserted around them; men and women were at work, children at school. T.K. was silent, looking at him with a steady, polite gaze, until he seemed disposed to continue.

"I am not here to show off, to upstage the chefs of Japan at their own game," said Marcel. "I merely want to see if I can create simple food that ordinary people will enjoy. But," he sighed, "even by the use of those words, _simple_ and _ordinary_, I suppose I give the lie to my own pretensions.—Let's change the subject, shall we? I would much rather think about something else."

"I can imagine."

"You were coming out of the Art Museum just now, yes?"

"That's right."

"I presume, then, you came to see the great masterwork by M. Dali? His _Madonna of Port Lligat_?"

T.K. blinked. "How'd you—?"

"This is no great feat of prognostication, my friend. It is the most famous painting in this small museum, after all."

"It…okay, yeah, it is. I guess it's not so surprising."

"Well? What did you think of it?"

"I think," said T.K., looking rueful, "that I had just gotten inside, when I looked through the window, saw you sitting here, and came out to talk to you."

"Ah! Ha! Then your quarry has eluded you. You have not done what it was that you set out to do."

"No," admitted T.K., "but then again, that's the story of my life."

"And not yours alone! Now, I take it, the moment is gone, it is passed, you no longer wish to go back inside and see your painting. There would be something indelicate about it now—as it is when you fail to lean in at just the right moment to kiss a girl. A shame, my friend. Better luck next time, eh? Ha, ha!"

* * *

As soon as Davis had begun getting dressed, he flung his discarded sweatshirt over the laptop, so that, illuminated from within by a faint blue glow, it appeared to be a ghost as it spoke to him in a muffled voice:

"Davis? Davis! You take this thing off right now so I can get a proper look at you."

"Um, ew? I'm your _brother_, in case you forgot."

"Exactly. It's nothing I haven't seen before, but I've got to know what we're working with," Jun's chirpy, matter-of-fact voice filtered through the sweatshirt fabric.

"_Working with_—? I booted up Skype for a sec 'cause I saw you were online, okay? I just wanted to say hi…um, it's been a while and all…"

Davis' voice was strained as, standing naked to the waist in front of his full-length mirror, he experimented with winding an emerald-green tie around his neck.

"Mm-_hmm_. Just coincidentally, right before your big date, you thought you'd give me a _ring_? Huh? Oh please, lil' browski, I might not be able to see through this stinky shirt but I can see through _you_. You want my adv-i-ce—dontcha?"

"Oh please, I do not."

"Dontcha! Dontcha! Oh, this is just too cute. Well, don't worry, you're in good hands. You happen to be speaking to a _bona fide _expert in lo-ove."

"_Bona fide_? What does that even _mean_? And since when are you an expert? Expert in scaring guys off is more like it. Heck, if that were karate, you'd be a black belt."

"Davis!" The voice turned harsh. "Fess up. How many dates have you been on in your whole life, little man?"

Now holding up a mauve tie against a faintly off-white dress shirt, Davis pretended not to have heard; and for a moment his small apartment was filled with traffic noise from the busy street below—it was evening rush hour.

"I _asked_ you a question."

"Okay! Okay, fine. Ten, for your information."

Jun's voice rang with mock admiration: "Oh, wow. Ten _whole_ girls! You dog. Now ask me how many dates I've been on."

"Nope."

"I _said_—"

"Fine! Fine! Jeez, you win. I want your advice. Not because I think it'll be any good, just because there was literally_ no one else online_ I could ask, and I didn't even know I was going on this date till an hour ago, and I still don't know if it _is_ a date! So go ahead and tell me how many guys—"

"Sixty-seven."

He thought he could hear Jun sticking out her tongue.

"Aw man," he moaned, covering his face, "really? What is that, the entire population of Tokyo? You give this family such a bad name."

"What's so wrong with it! Sure—some of those dates were total disasters. A lot of them, as a matter of fact. Boy, I could tell you stories. But you know what? A lot of them were really fun, too. And do you know what else? I'm happy with my life. I'm happy, and I want you to be happy, too."

"So is Matt like the only guy you haven't dated recently?"

"Pfft.—That's a low blow, Mini-Motomiya, but if you think I'm getting embarrassed about _that_, you couldn't be further from the truth. I really enjoyed my time with Matt, and I got in a lot of good practice with him, too."

"Ew!"

"I didn't mean _that_. I meant practice just talking to him. Talking to a cute guy, or a cute girl, is something that takes a lot of practice. And let's be honest—it's been a while for you, hasn't it?"

"It…um."

Davis, grimacing, had just noticed a large coffee strain on the back of the dress shirt he never wore. How had he managed to get coffee down the _back_?

"Davis, who was the most popular guy in high school? I mean aside from Matt and Tai."

"…I guess maybe Akio Hata? That guy always had a date. Which," he looked thoughtful, "is kind of weird, 'cause he didn't play sports or anything. I don't think he even had a car."

"Exactly, and do you know what? I asked him what his secret was. And do you know what he told me?"

"No-o."

"He said he just went up to girls and asked, _hey babe, want to make out_?"

Davis blinked into the mirror. "Um, does that work?"

"That's what I asked him. So he went up and tried it on the best-looking girl we could see."

"What happened?"

"She slapped him in the face."

"Ouch."

"Then he came back, and I said, _see, that doesn't work_. And he shrugged and said, _well, sure, sometimes they slap you. But sometimes they make out._"

"So…that's it?" Davis squirmed into his only blazer jacket, smiling as he realized that it totally concealed the coffee stain on the shirt underneath. "That's your advice? Just go up and ask her if she wants to make out, huh?"

"_No_, of course not. But don't sell yourself short, either—have some _confidence_, for god's sake. You've got nothing to lose and everything to gain. Besides, she's a very sweet girl, and I've always thought she was perfect for you.

Davis' eye strayed hesitantly toward the laptop screen. "…Really?"

"Of course.—What was her name again?"

"It's _Kari_, Jun."

"Sure. Kari."

"Then what was that about her being perfect for me!"

"Well, I'm sure she _could_ be perfect you. Anyone can be, if you just give them a chance. Or vice versa."

"Gee," he muttered, "thanks a lot, big sis."

"Not a problem. Knock 'em dead, tiger."


	8. Honest

**AN**:_ I had meant for this conversation to lead into another scene, but it was getting long, so I trimmed it here. Cheers!_

_-Incanto_

* * *

It seemed as if she has begun to laugh even before she saw him.

Arriving by subway, Davis had dragged himself up into the spacious, well-lit interior of Hakata Station—already rueing his wardrobe choices, having inspected himself in every mirror, or accidentally reflective surface, between here and his apartment door. It seemed natural that she should be laughing at him, but, he reflected again, sometimes it was good to be laughed at.

"That _suit_. Who told you you had to wear a suit? What did you think this was, a job interview?"

"We-ell," said Davis, catching his breath as he ran one hand slowly down the back of his neck, "t-the truth is, y'know," his voice shrank, "I'm not entirely sure what it is. So I figured, um, be prepared."

"It's a date," she said, looking calmly at him without blinking. "Isn't it?"

"It. Is it?"

"Oh, _look_ at you. C'mon," she tugged his arm, "it's not like we're getting married, right? But we're grown-ups. We can call a spade a spade. Two single people, going out in the evening, together. I'd call that a date. Wouldn't you?"

"I…guess if you put it that way."

He felt the urge to look around for a hidden camera, and half-expected to see Yolei and Cody, coyly smirking, duck out from behind a pillar. But there was only a crowd of serious-faced businessmen and women in their suits, homeward bound, and him in his absurd brown suit and green tie, like a schoolteacher, and Kari in a white tank top and plain, sleek black skirt, with the familiar camera looped around her neck, looking him in the face and telling him words he'd never expected to hear.

"Look…" she drew closer, and he didn't pull away. "That other night, in the karaoke place?"

"Um, yeah?"

"You and TK were gone a pretty long time. I think I can guess what he told you…and I can guess what he asked you to do."

"Oh. Jeez."

"He asked you to take me out. Show me a good time. _After all I'd been through_—or something like that. Because he's way too important and serious to do it himself. Am I right?"

_Whew_, Davis reflected, at least she hadn't guessed the extent of it.

"I, I guess that's pretty much it."

"Don't worry," she went on. "I'm not offended. I don't think it's creepy, even if it is a little weird. But TK can be thick sometimes. He thinks he's so hard to read, but he forgets how well I know him. And he's so used to stage-managing his own life that he thinks he can do the same to other people. But I don't mind. So, here. I'm making it easy for you."

She held out her hands, a criminal offering herself for up for arrest; showing him her perfectly white, almost translucent wrists, like the underbellies of salamanders.

Davis took a deep breath. He shut his eyes, and when he opened them, he appeared calmer, and they shone with a contented light.

"Okay. Well, I think I'd really like that."

"I think I would, too.—But first you've got to do one thing. Wait, though, not here."

"Hmm?"

Unselfconsciously, she took him by the hand and led him toward the station exit, then out into the fragrant, slightly damp, late spring air. This exit, called the Chikushi Gate, let out on several large hotels, and a plaster fountain painted with a scene of Fukuoka's _yamakasa_ festival. They approached the fountain, and the twinkling lights surrounding its base played on Kari's bare arms and hair as she lowered herself onto a nearby bench, then sat Davis beside her. Her face was hard to read and he felt a mixture of puppy-like joy, and apprehension.

She took both his hands.

"I want you tell me," she said, "exactly what you're thinking right now. I was honest with you. Now I want you to be honest with me."

"H-hey, you've got the wrong guy. I mean, if you're looking for Courage or Friendship…"

Kari smiled.

"Don't get me wrong, it's not that I think you're up to something. I just don't believe in wasting time. I might not be here for very long, I don't know. So, if there's anything you want to tell me, I want you to come right out and tell me."

"What do you mean," said Davis, carefully eyeing her face that was brightly lit on one side, half light, half dark, "you might not be here…?"

"In _Fukuoka_, dummy!—Honestly. I'm not turning morbid on you. So go on, spit it out."

"Well," he said, regretting that he seemed unable to say anything without prefacing it with _well_ or _we-ell_, "I think you look really pretty, I think you always did. And, and…I'm okay with this. And I know it's not, like, taken for granted that I _am_ okay with it. It's…not as easy as I thought it'd be. You know? It does make me think about a lot of things I haven't thought about in a long time, and I get nervous, but like—deep down, I'm okay with this. No matter what happens…even if I get kind of weird…I don't want you to think I don't wanna be here.—Woah. Oof."

He looked at her hands clasping his with grateful surprise, as if suspecting that she had used them as a conduit to perform some kind of magic.

"There." She patted his arm. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?"

"Is it really that easy? Just speaking your mind."

"It is," she said, "with practice."

"And there's something else, too."

"Oh?"

"You know all that um, stuff I used to say."

"I…might remember some of it, yes."

"Well, I've kind of been thinking about it, a lot, since you came here.—And—I'm sorry."

There was a slightly knowing shade in her innocent reply: "What for?"

"I'm sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable…okay? I guess it was easier to act like you were already my girlfriend because I was afraid of what would happen if I asked you how you really felt."

"Davis. I'm impressed with you. That's very mature."

"Aw, you don't have to make fun of me…Jeez."

She firmly shook her head. "I'm not. But the truth is, I'm kind of sorry too. I don't know if you ever did make me uncomfortable or not—we were awkward back then. But the truth is, I never really wondered how you felt, because—and this sounds awful—I sort of didn't think you _had_ feelings. I didn't really think anyone did, expect for me. Maybe all kids are like that, a little bit—but everyone used to tell me I was so _nice_—so _compassionate_—but I don't really think that was the case at all. I _felt_ compassionate, I liked _feeling_ compassionate, but I never really wondered what was _inside_ other people. You were a nice boy who made me laugh, TK was a nice boy who made me feel safe, Cody was little and cute—and—it seemed like it should have gone on that way forever."

"I get that," Davis said suddenly. "That makes sense to me. But hey, I never thought about how _you_ felt, expect that I hoped you liked me."

"You said some pretty dumb things, let's be honest."

"H-hey…!"

His face, he realized, was red with suppressed laughter and giddy relief. Then suddenly Kari looked angry, and he flinched back, but she only yelled over his shoulder:

"What're _you_ looking at? Take a picture, it'll last longer!"

He twisted his head around—a trio of junior high school girls in their uniforms, paused in the act of unchaining their bicycles from a rack, were regarding them with knowing smirks.

"Ah," said the tallest, making a kissy face, "it's nice being young, aint it?"

Davis got to his feet. "Scram!"

They leapt on their bikes and took off, cackling.

He sat back down, covering his face. Kari was laughing again, again shading her mouth with one hand.

"My hero."

"Aw, save it.—Okay. I got one more question."

"Shoot."

"And you'll be totally honest?"

"Of course."

He glanced left and right; but they were alone now, and the sky, perfectly dark, seemed to fit snugly overhead.

"How do you feel about—" he leaned closer, "_him_?"

Kari leaned back. She sighed.

"I mean I know," Davis stumbled onward, "it's none of my business whatever the two of you did or, or didn't do, but…"

"But," she said, "what I feel _is_ kind of your business. Isn't it?"

"Well." He swallowed. "Yeah."

Once again, she reached out, taking only one of his hands this time, feeling his calloused palm, and let it rest on the bench in-between them.

"Being perfectly honest," she said, "if he had asked me out? I probably would have said yes. I think he's a great person—a special person—and he understands me. Except…"

"Except he didn't," said Davis, "instead, he asked me to ask you out. So um, you asked me out."

"I guess that's about it."

"Yep."

"I'm sorry." She looked at him compassionately. "Are you okay with that?"

"Okay? I'm better than okay." He sounded manly now, sure of himself; and he reached out and covered her hand with his other. "Because we can be honest about it. I mean, that just felt really, really good. You probably don't know how good. So um, what are we waiting for? L-let's get going!"

"What indeed?"

"What was that TJ said?—_Fukuoka's famous hospitality_. You just wait and see!"

Her smile became narrow, ethereal, and she allowed him to help her to her feet.

"I'm aquiver with anticipation."


	9. Urashima Taro and the Caviar Spoon

**AN**:_ Honestly, I agonized over this chapter quite a bit, but I'm pleased with the way it turned out, and I hope all of you will be too. In other news the rating went up to T (*whistles innocently)_

_I assume everyone knows the story of Urashima Taro because it showed up in some anime or other, but if not, you can Wiki it,_

_-Incanto_

* * *

"Well, fancy running into you here."

Although Kugiyama said this, it was not at all unusual for the pair, who lived four blocks away from each other in nearly identical bachelor apartments in the Takamiya district, to encounter each other at the Bon Repas supermarket near the train station—even at 11 o'clock at night. But Davis, who had been kneeling down to inspect a shelf with his palms on his knees, straightened up and glanced over his shoulder with a look of profound horror.

"Jeez!—Y-you startled me—that's all."

"Whatcha got there? More soda pop and instant ramen for one?"

Davis was holding his shopping basket in front of him, looping both arms around the handles in an effort to disguise its contents.

"S-sure! Something like that. Well, don't let me keep you. I guess you're probably in a rush to get home and get some sleep, what with that ramen thing in just a couple of days and all."

Kugiyama's eyes narrowed.

"That ramen _thing_."

"You know, that—whatsit?"

"Davis." He snapped his fingers in front of his friends' eyes. "What. Is the name. Of the event that we've spent the last six months prepping for? The event that will make our professional reputations and launch—our—_fame_ nationwide?"

"The Fukuoka Ramen—Show! Ha, ha. That's the word I was looking for. Funny, huh, how the simplest words just run away from you. Heh, speaking of running away wouldn't you know it, I'd better be…"

"That's funny…" Kugiyama was peering into his face. "You don't look _that_ drunk, although your cheeks are pretty red. What's up with that suit? I haven't seen you drag that thing out of the closet since we got interviewed for Ramen Walker. Say," his eyes narrowed further, "you're not holding out on me…are you? Interviewing some other guy for my job? Ready to ditch the little dude now that you're about to hit it big?"

"Oh—man! That, that's _totally_ what I was doing. You caught me. But you know, now that I've talked to you, I've seen the light. Boy do I regret it, and I'll never, never do it again, but if you'll excuse me I've really got to be—"

"Liar! Show me the goods."

The two men tussled, drawing concerned glances from other late-night shoppers who had, a moment before, been shuffling contentedly around the sleepy, peacefully-lit, mid-sized supermarket.

Kugiyama pinned Davis' right arm, exposing not only the contents of his basket, but his right jacket pocket that appeared to be stuffed with yellow arcade tickets.

"You went to_ Canal City _without me?"

"M-maybe!"

"That's lower than a snake, Motomiya, you know how much I love that drum game. And what have we got here…"

Instead of instant ramen and cans of soda pop, the basket contained two sea-green bottles of Prosecco with silvery foil wrapped around their necks; some kind of fancy cheese in a circular wooden case; boxes of tiny crackers with Italian on the label; and what appeared to be caviar.

Kugiyama stood tapping his foot.

"Davis."

Davis stood looking down at the tips of his shoes.

"My sister is town."

"That was strike two! I'll give you one more chance to come clean with me."

"I'm…donating it to a food panty."

"A food pantry."

"For the orphans of rich people, y'know? They're all used to nice food and stuff. You know…like Batman."

"Mm-hmm. And just what were you looking for over here?"

They were standing in an aisle of hygiene supplies.

"Dental floss."

"It's right over there."

"They…don't have the kind I like."

"Is that so?"

Davis eyes were beginning to water. "Please," he said, in a weak voice. "Just let me go. I'll owe you so many favors, I swear to Tenjin-sama and any other gods you wanna bring into it—okay?"

"So what you're saying is," said Kugiyama, arms crossed, "this is more important to you than the Ramen Show."

The question caused Davis to wilt.

"I…I don't know," he finally said.

"Well—fine. I guess it's none of _my_ business. But I'm warning you, if whatever you're getting up to distracts you one iota, or makes you one inch less of a cook on Sunday, then so help me…"

"Thanks. Thanks. Oh—Kugi, you're a prince," said Davis, and embraced him hard, forcing the air out of him. Then he raised one leg, about to sprint off.

"Hey!" Kugiyama took a small box off the shelf and held it up. "Forgetting something, aren't we?"

Davis looked back. His face turned gray. He reached out, snatched the box out of Kugiyama's hand and thrust it underneath the contents of the basket so quickly that there was a splintering noise from the crackers.

"Just to be clear," Kugiyama leaned in close, "we—will—never discuss this again under pain of my killing you, then myself. Or possibly the other way around. Understood?"

"S-sure thing, good buddy."

* * *

Walking down the hallway of his apartment building, feeling a breeze on the back of his neck from the open stairwell, Davis heard a rhythmic thudding. At first he assumed it was coming from inside his ribcage, but gradually he realized that it was coming from behind his apartment door.

Once again, for what must have been the eight or ninth time that night, he pulled up his sleeve—there were several thin red marks still visible there—and pinched himself, hard. Nothing changed.

Images of angels, of gods and celestial beings, kept swirling through his mind. He remembered her blessing the bundle of knives in Dazaifu, the knowing way she'd winked at him then. There seemed to be no other explanation for what was happening than that a prayer, uttered by someone at some time (and to whom?) had been answered—but what if the prayer had been made on some condition that he'd forgotten? What if he had promised to donate all his money to charity? Should he go ahead and do that just to be on the safe side?

The thudding continued. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it.

Davis' apartment, like Kugiyama's and like most belonging to young, single men he knew, consisted of a short hallway opening into a bathroom, and beyond it, two slightly larger rooms—a kitchen/dining room and living/bedroom—all visible, if the doors were open, from the foyer. He stood there with the bags of groceries under one arm and slowly let the front door creak shut behind him. For a moment it looked as if a cat had got loose inside, but the dark shape flitting around the room was a soccer ball, kicked by a girl, wearing a long cobalt-blue soccer jersey that had belonged to him in college, and nothing else. The warm light from a lamp painted her bare legs gold.

The ball angled for the space underneath his dining room table and bounced off one of the legs.

"There," Kari clicked her tongue, "you made me miss my shot."

She came and stood in the door between the hallway and kitchen, delicately holding the hem of the jersey as if were a dress and she were about to curtesy, and taking in the expression on his face, it seemed, with great satisfaction. Then she looked down at it.

"Were you really number zero?"

"It's," he managed to say, "it's not like they're ranked one to ten or something."

"Relax. I'm just teasing."

She stepped closer, and the two grocery bags wobbled dangerously under his arm.

"I-I know."

"Here, let me get that before you spill this stuff all over the place.—What have we got here? Ooh, you _are_ a chef. Caviar! Ha, ha. No way they had this at the grocery store. I thought this stuff was supposed to be really expensive."

"It's um, well, y'see, technically _real_ caviar only comes from three species of sturgeon…the osetra, sevruga, and beluga. This is from a different kind of fish. The um, lumpfish."

"Well, thanks," she said, with more than her usual dose of calm sincerity. "I still think it's sweet that you went out to get all this stuff. Even if you couldn't get _real_ caviar."

Then she put her hand on his cheek, but when he attempted to embrace her and the sharp edge of the cheese box prodded her lower back, she laughed, broke away, gently took the bags from his hand and put them on the kitchen table. He approached her from behind and, very slowly, as if touching the surface of a hot stove, put his arms around her. She shut her eyes and smiled.

"That feels nice."

"You can say that again.—Jeez! I can't um, you probably noticed but, I have this sudden-onset condition where nothing comes out of my mouth that isn't completely stupid. B-but hey, I think the cure is more wine."

"About that…"

Kari stopped his hand as he made to draw one bottle of Prosecco out of the bag. He looked surprised. Then comprehending. "Oh! Oh, you mean…I forgot…oh god, I-I'm really sorry…"

"No," she said, "I know what you just thought, but that was _T.K._, not me. I can have as much as I want. But just because I can doesn't mean I _should_. And to tell you the truth, well—maybe it's not entirely unrelated and oh, oh, please don't look like that."

Turning in his embrace, she caught his panicked look and hugged him as if catching a baby bird about to topple out of its nest.

"L-like what?"

"_You_ know," she said, half-laughing, half solicitous. "I can tell what you're thinking. You think this is so _unlikely_, don't you?—and that just by saying or doing something slightly wrong you'll make it all disappear, like Urashima Taro opening the Dragon King's box."

He swallowed, wordless, and nodded.

"Well don't worry," she said, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not about to break like a piece of crystal if you breath on me. But that doesn't mean," she chose her next words carefully, "it doesn't mean I'm not worried too. But let me just say this—okay? I'm not here because you tricked me. I'm not here because you figured out some magic combination of the right things to say."

"So," his voice shrank to a whisper, "why are you here?"

"I'm here because you were sweet and thoughtful…because we had a great time—" she cast about for better, more concrete examples. "Because you knew just what to order at dinner. Because you were such good friends with the restaurant owner, and the way you guys joked around made me laugh. Because you took me to the arcade without worrying that it wasn't romantic enough, and because seeing you having fun there reminded me of when we were kids. But most of all because, when you said goodnight with that puppy-dog look in your eyes like you didn't even hope, but maybe, just _maybe_—I thought that I'd never had the chance to make anyone that happy before—I felt generous—then you kissed me and it felt amazing. And when you saluted me before you left for the grocery store like a pilot taking off, I thought, _yes, this is it, this is the real thing_…and when you were gone, I touched all your stuff, I lay down on your bed, and finally—well…"

She cast a glance down at the hem of the jersey.

The confidence in her voice had shrunk, and she now seemed to be holding him, or being held by him, more for her own sake than his. His own voice was gentle as he asked:

"And?"

"And after a while," she said, with a sigh, "I started feeling really, really silly. But it was still worth it to see the look on your face."

Her own face was trapped for a moment in a weirdly vulnerable smile, and they shared a small, sincere kiss.

"Can I say?" he said. "When I came just home now? That was probably the greatest moment of my life. So um, take that for what it's worth, I guess. Also my heart almost stopped and I died, so there's that."

She laughed.

Detaching himself from her with the utmost care, Davis opened both bags, but he left the bottles alone. He opened the cheese, a box of crackers, and crossed to the cabinets, returning with two white plates and a fistful of utensils.

"Hey!" Kari stamped her foot in mock-outrage. "Don't try to weasel out of this conversation, Davis."

"I'm not. I just think you'd feel better if you ate something.—See this?" He showed her a small, iridescent spoon. "Caviar spoon. Mother-of-pearl. Doesn't spoil the flavor."

"Well, _now_ I feel silly. But okay, we can take a snack break before we resume discussing our feelings."

And they ate in silence for several minutes, munching down the crackers with dollops of dark lumpfish caviar, and occasionally sharing glances and smiles that were alternatively guilty, grateful and amused.

"I get it," Davis, at length, went on. "You don't want to get carried away. If you feel something, you want to make sure that it's real."

"Yes, but not just that. It _does_ remind me of when I used to do, well, the stuff that I guess T.K. told you I did. I used to feel…I guess I still do feel…that sometimes, what I feel is just too _big_. Like it can't fit inside me. That scares me. When I used to—do that stuff, it was like it made the inside of me bigger, so that I could feel everything I wanted to feel. And the way I felt just now…"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I felt something big, and it scared me. It made me want to keep drinking to make more space. But maybe…y'know…I should just sit with it a while. And see what happens."

Davis was nodding. "I know how you feel. Or at least, I think I do. And um, do you know what…"

He glanced left and right, then reached up to brush a crumb of caviar off his upper lip.

"What?"

"You got to lean in really close, 'cause I'm only going to say this once."

"Okay."

She leaned across the table. In her ear he whispered:

"_Maybe I'm just a tiny, tiny bit relieved_."

She laughed. He laughed. They looked at each, blinking. Then something seemed to occur to Davis and he began pulling one of the nearly-empty grocery bags slowly toward himself, off the table.

"It's too late," said Kari, "I already saw it."

He buried his face in his hands.

"Don't be sorry! I know it's embarrassing to buy those things, and I thought that was very gentlemanly of you. Although," and her sweet smile, for a moment, turned cruel, "it is kind of sad that you didn't have any lying around."

"Kari," said Davis, hands still covering his face, "I've had the time of my life, but when you're done eating, please put on your clothes and get out of here.—Wow. There's something I _never_ thought I'd say."

She was snickering helplessly. When she got up to put her dish in the sink, she dug a thumb hard in his ribcage, then seized him from behind and kissed the top of his head. Then she skipped off toward the bathroom and returned, a minute later, wearing her ensemble from earlier in the evening, and holding her camera in both hands.

"Say cheese."

Davis finally lowered his hands, but brought up the circular box of cheese in their place.

"Cheese."

The camera flashed.

"Call me, loverboy," she said, and slipped out the door so rapidly there was no sign, an instant later, that she had ever been there.

Davis got to his feet. He took several deep breaths. Then he crossed to the kitchen sink, filled a glass with cold water and, leaning over, dumped it on his head. He straightened up, coughing and brushing at his hair.

He walked across the dining room and kitchen, into the living and bedroom, unknotting his tie as he went. A strange, wondrous smile seemed permanently stamped onto his face. He pushed back the shutters and looked up at the night sky.

A moment later, his laptop began humming and buzzing. He rushed over, eager, threw back the lid and pressed the green button to accept the Skype call.

"Oh," said a woman's voice, "oh, how tragic. I was so hoping you wouldn't answer! So sad, little bro, I guess you didn't get la—"

Davis snarled and pounded a different button. _Jun_, read the display, _call ended: 11:47._


	10. Business

T.K. lay on his bed in the attitude of a vampire in its coffin, eyes shut, shoes on. The room was dark. The clock read _11:17_. His cellphone, lying on the bed beside the pillow, rang.

"Hello?"

An indistinct voice on the other end. His expression was serious and calm as he propped himself up on one elbow.

"I don't think she'll be coming back tonight," he said, "so this could be our best chance. How soon can you be over?"

* * *

Leaving Davis' building, the last Nishitetsu train had just pulled out of Takamiya Station, but it was only a fifteen-minute walk along the line, under the arches of the raised track, to Yakuin where she and T.K. were lodged at New Otani Hakata Hotel. Maybe it was her mood, but the space seemed charged with romantic energy, the old iron arches and trestles ancient and secretive, like the covered arcades she had read about in certain Italian cities. But the further she walked, the less it seemed romantic and strange, the more it seemed only strange. There was no one else on the street, although every once in a while a car slid past with its invisible passengers. It was as if she had fallen through the cracks of her own life, into a space no one was meant to inhabit; or if she were playing a video game, if she had pushed through a glitched wall into a space full of indistinct shapes the developers had left unfinished.

She thought she'd made the sensible choice. But had her sudden exit been just as impulsive as taking Davis' hand in the first place? She felt weightless. And she remembered how comforting his arms had felt cinched around her waist.

It was fun to think that dreams really came true. But wasn't what _didn't_ happen much more interesting than what did happen? What T.K. had said about women and submarines. It had been fun to think, to wish and fantasize and dream all those years, but what if something really did happen?

Maybe it was wiser, as T.K. seemed to, to live in the imagination only. And she felt a sudden irritation with him—not that he had palmed her off on Davis, as if Davis were second prize, a donkey to his winsome stallion; but that he had made provisions for her real life before returning to lord it over a world of pure fantasy, never considering that she might want to live there too. Maybe real happiness was impossible with him, but there was something to be said for illusory happiness, wasn't there? And she felt bad for Davis that she would think that, even momentarily. Kari, who walked out into the night practically skipping, returned to the warm light of the hotel foyer dragging her feet, listing about like a sad ghost.

There was no adventure in life, no real fun. It was possible to pretend for a while, but sooner or later you had to go to sleep, and when you woke up it was gone.

Back in her room, she retrieved the half-empty wine bottle from the mini-fridge. Whatever else, they needed to talk.

But when, her feet shod in the hotel slippers, she had crept five doors down and across the hall, she suddenly came up short.

Voices were issuing from behind T.K.'s door. One unmistakably his. The second belonging to another man.

_Oh_, she thought, with a wry little smile. _So that's how it is._

Then her irritation flared back up. Even if that _was_—as she had vaguely suspected—T.K.'s deal, it wasn't like him to pick up some stranger in a bar. It must have been a guy he had arranged to come down here to meet, someone he had known for a long time. Had that been the _real_ reason for the trip? Certainly, for all they got along better now, he hadn't come down here just to see Davis. And he'd never breathed a word of it to her!—not on the train, not the night she'd been running her bath; not even after karaoke. Then again, he'd kept his plans for her secret, but somehow that offended her less, as if his business were more her business than her own. And he'd even tried to get her out of the way!

She scurried back to her room, stashed the wine in the fridge, and, with a look that was mischievous but somehow fixed and grim at the same time, dialed his extension.

It took him a while to pick up.

"Um, hello?"

"Hey, you," she said, making her voice small.

"Hey. Oh. Jeez. It's really late—Kari. Are, are you back here?"

"Uh-huh."

"What's…what's up?

"Oh…nothing much. I kinda, sorta just wanted to talk. Can you maybe come over?"

"I kind of think I'd better not? If that's okay."

"Why-y?" she whined, twirling the phone cord around her finger.

"Because…your brother'd kill me?"

"Aw. C'mon, that didn't stop you before. I promise I'm decent. Just throw on some pajamas and get over here, okay? Or is there some reason you can't?"

"I don't think that's a very—"

Then she heard a voice in the background—as she expected—but what it said was so _un_expected that she sat bolt upright. It was the voice she'd heard in the hall, that she now realized was extremely hoarse, and it said:

"Is that Hikari? Why not just…"

The rest was lost.

"T.K.," she said sharply, "who's there?"

"Nobody."

"Takeru Takaishi!"

"Wha-at! There's nobody else here, Kari, it's your mind playing tricks on you. Look, I'm sorry your date didn't go well, okay? We'll talk about it the morning. Now…"

There was the sound of a scuffle on the other end of the line. For a moment she gripped the phone, alarmed, but the voice quickly resumed. It was the second, hoarser voice, that now seemed extremely familiar:

"Sorry about that. Maybe you _had_ better come over here?"

Her own voice dipped into hoarseness as she replied:

"_Cody_?"

* * *

The shock was compounded when she opened T.K.'s door to see, not—as a part of her suspected—a sheepish Cody wearing the hotel pajamas, but the short, stockily built, and now austerely handsome young man wearing a full, burgundy-colored suit and tie, and she almost closed the door in his face assuming there'd been some mistake; but there was no mistaking the hair, like a monk's tonsure, crowning his face with its deep-set green eyes.

He smiled and made a half-bow.

"Hikari-_san_. It's been a while."

"I'll say." She rubbed her eyes. "I thought it was almost June, not April First."

"I suppose I owe you an explanation…"

"_You_ don't."

She cut past him—he shut the door carefully behind her—T.K. was sprawled on the bed, leaning against the wall, his hands netted behind his head. He looked rakish in the light from the desktop lamp.

"You're back awfully late, young lady," he said.

"You're _up_ awfully late, mister. Now was all that stuff about Davis just to throw me off the track?"

T.K. held up his hands. "Guilty as charged! Well—not exactly. I mean, I totally had your best interests at heart. I hoped it would work out. But I guess, since you know me so well and you'd figure I was up to something anyway, I'd better have another _something_ to be up to. If you follow."

"It's not what you think," came Cody's voice, close by her shoulder.

"You don't owe me any explanation! It's the twenty-first century, you two are consenting adults…"

"It's _really_ not what you think." Turning, she saw Cody's face flush as deeply as if he were still ten years old. "I ah," he went on, coughing into his fist, "you might say I'm here in a professional capacity. Although from my point of view, it's just as well that it involves friends."

"Refresh my memory." She squinted at him. "You're some kind of lawyer…correct?"

"A prosecutor," he said, "to be exact. I specialize in international law. Specifically, cases related to theft, smuggling and fraud."

There was a faint smile on T.K.'s face as he observed them from the bed. He seemed less than upset to be discovered.

"And were you planning on telling me _any _of this?"

"It seemed easier to keep you out of it. But," he shared a glance with Cody, "I think at this point…"

Cody nodded.

"Kari," said T.K., "supposing you wanted to steal something? I mean something very large and extremely valuable."

"Well—I'm not sure exactly what you mean."

"I mean, how would you go about it? For example."

"I guess…well."

"I'll give you a hint," he said. "Wouldn't it be great if there were something that distracted a lot of people? Like, a big, public event. Maybe something that only happens once a year."

Comprehension was dawning in her eyes. "Like a Ramen Show," she said. Then she blinked and shook her head. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"I only wish we were," said Cody, "and that we could catch up under more leisurely circumstances. But I'm afraid there can be no mistake."

"All right, then," she said, "just what is it that's supposed to be stolen?"

Although, at the back of her mind, she already knew the answer even before T.K. said it:

"The Madonna of Port Lligat."


End file.
